


renew

by FrazzledDragon



Category: The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rare Fandoms, Sibling Banter, if anybody who hasn't read any of the books happens to stumble across this, me? write a realistic fiction longfic? crazy, you don't need to have read them to read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrazzledDragon/pseuds/FrazzledDragon
Summary: Honey Wheeler-Grant is bored and uninspired.Trixie Belden is desperate and terrified of failure.Diana Lynch would like to work at the art museum and not have any excitement or drama.Their stories are about to intertwine.
Relationships: Trixie Belden & Mart Belden & Brian Belden
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. not your fault

**Author's Note:**

> hello :) this is a bit different than anything i've posted here thus far, and i know there aren't many peeps in this fandom, but if anyone came across this accidentally, i hope you'll give it a try :)
> 
> the chapters should get a little longer as they go along but we'll see how long my inspiration lasts XD

Honey Wheeler-Grant is not happy in her marriage.

She sips the wine straight from the bottle. No use dirtying another dish. She’d just have to clean it anyway. No one who cares will notice.

Her husband, the esteemed and very wealthy George Grant, is up on his soap-box again. This time, about the state of the taxes on the rich. This morning, it was the state of the nation. Last night, it was the president. Yesterday lunch, New York’s senator. Yesterday morning, before they had even gotten out of bed, the corruption in his workplace.

He’s not a bad husband, she supposes wearily. He’s really not. He doesn’t beat her, doesn’t abuse her verbally, pays for everything her heart could desire, doesn’t swarm her, leaves her on her own most of the time. He cares about her, at least she thinks, which is nice. Really, he’s not so bad. He’s actually pretty good.

But he’s… not what she wanted.

When she was young, marriage was exciting. Enticing. Beautiful. This is neither of the above. George is a good man, but he is  _ boring _ . He’s never worked a day in his life. He has all these opinions on things he has the money to change, but he’ll never change things despite this fact. Honey has suggested he tries to fight for what he can rant about so passionately. He disregarded her almost instantly, on the premise she was being nonsensical.

It was not nonsensical. She happens to know what gaslighting is, thank you very much. They had a long, civil discussion about that later, and George apologized.

There is nothing beautiful about George, either.

He is kind, and he wants her to live comfortably. He doesn’t expect her to share his bed very often. However, she is expected to sometimes and he is nearly twenty years older than her. He is not her type, not her age, and was only chosen to be her husband because he somehow wooed her parents first. This man is not her definition of beautiful, nor enticing, but her parents loved him from first sight.

Sometimes, she wishes she wasn’t such a pushover.

“I have a headache, love. I’m going to bed, okay?” She interrupts, massaging her sinuses. George doesn’t hardly slow down. There’s no one else in the room, but he likes hearing himself talk. He says it’s because he wasn’t listened to as a child. As a fellow only child in a rich family, she cannot  _ imagine _ that’s true.

She wanders toward her bedroom, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Tomorrow, she has to drop the car off to be serviced, then has a doctor’s appointment. They had moved here a month ago, and this will be her first appointment with her new doctor.

This new town will be exciting, she supposes. For a while. Just until George asks for children again, or her mother decides to visit, or her father dumps another mountain of cash into her bank account. 

Then it will be boring once again.

She supposes she shouldn’t complain. There are far worse things in this life than boredom, she  _ knows _ that, but it’s hard to get excited to live each day, when they are always the same and always dull. She tried to get a job, but George argued it was a waste of her time. 

She has a degree, a resume, talents and skills.

George said they didn’t need the money. He said there were better things she could be doing with her time. He said it would only complicate things when they wanted to go on trips and vacation. It would make it harder for them to make time for one another.

She did not agree, but she didn’t want to start a fight. George thanked her for considering his side. She went to bed early that night.

Their bed is massive and soft where she collapses into it. She doesn’t know how to help herself. It’s not  _ George’s  _ fault. He tries. She’s so tired.

She doesn’t bother to change out of her clothes before falling asleep.

Trixie Belden rolls her eyes, but covers her face with her hand so he can’t see. 

The detective, probably well-meaning, offers her a flower with a wry smile. “Drinks tonight? On me? I promise you’ll have a good time.”

She puts on her best apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’ve got plans tonight. Maybe next time, okay? The flower’s gorgeous.”

Actually, the flower is a red rose, and therefore the most typical thing  _ ever _ , but she’s not holding it against him. Being a female detective means she’s hypersexualized and constantly approached by her female-attracted coworkers.

“You’re a hard sell, Belden,” he grins in return, more good-natured than the last one. Maybe she’ll actually say yes to him next time. How they handle rejections tells a lot about their character, and he  _ does _ have a nice smile.

“Just busy,” she grins, gesturing to the mountains of paperwork surrounding her. “Got a lot on my plate.”

“Well, if you find yourself with a free evening you’d like to spend on the town, let me know. I’ll buy all night.” He waves as he walks away.

Trixie lets out a sigh. If she ever found herself with a free evening, she’d probably spend the entire time stressing out that she’d forgotten something. Her first instinct would  _ definitely _ not be to go out on the town, especially not with a coworker.

Not a slam against her coworkers, to be clear. Most of them are fairly nice. They are just  _ coworkers _ . She has to be able to get along with them, to work alongside them. That’s hard to do when there’s bad blood.

Besides, it’s not like she has time for romance right now anyways. She’s swamped. That wasn’t really a joke. She has a million other things she needs to be doing. Flirting is not among them. There’s a tap on her desk.

She looks up at her chief, Grace Taylor. She’s a fine-boned woman, tall and imposing. She doesn’t look nearly as physically strong as she is. “He wasn’t propositioning you, right?”

“Just asking me out for drinks, Chief,” Trixie smiles. “He’s a nice one, don’t worry. I might actually take him up on it sometime.”

Relief fills her features, softens her stance. Grace smiles, squeezing her shoulder. “You should. You’ve got plenty of vacation time saved up.”

Trixie gestures again to the pile of files. “If I took a break now, I’d spend the entire time thinking and worrying about all of this. When things slow down, I’ll look at a break. I swear it.”

Shaking her head, she simply squeezes her shoulder again. “Clever, because it’ll never slow down,” she hums. “Don’t burn yourself out, Belden. You’re a good detective and a great cop. There’s a reason you have as many cases as you do, but you should prioritize self-care as well. It’s not good for the mind to be constantly filled with such violence.”

She simply nods, knowing that there’s nothing she can say. Her chief is right, of course she is, but there’s just no time. There are victims that need justice, and she has the skills with which to provide. She will not let them down. She can’t.

Her chief is still standing there. “Don’t make me confine you to your bed,” are her parting words, as she meanders away.

Trixie snorts. It only got that bad  _ one time _ , and that one involved physical injury as well as a little burnout, so that’s not her fault. Okay - it was a  _ teensy _ bit her fault, but not fully. Definitely not.

Chief definitely needs to let it go.

She squints her eyes as she looks back down at the papers. It’s been a couple days since she last slept and she’s definitely paying for it now. She pulls the reading glasses from her desk, and keeps scanning.

There has to be something, buried in these files, where only the most dedicated can find it. There has to be. She cannot accept anything less. She’s  _ got _ to find her brother.

“I’m coming, Mart,” she murmurs to no one and nothing, biting her lip.

_ It’s only been three weeks. I’ll find him _ .  _ He’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. _

She does not believe herself. She knows the odds all too well for that.

Diana scans the exhibition space, delicately nibbling on the end of her pen. There’s something missing, she’s sure of it. 

The painting gallery from the local artist is fine. They brought more paintings than the museum paid to display, which is a much easier problem to solve than too few, and Diana had gotten to pick the cream of the crop.

The ceramicist’s gallery is looking almost perfect too. The artist is nitpicking the positioning of a few bowls, and they haven’t finished altering the ceiling lights to illuminate all the pieces perfectly, but they’re close. It should be finished within the hour.

The seamstress, however, is causing her a bit of a headache.

Clothing is not Diana’s specialty in the best of times - she’s far more familiar with paint of all kinds, especially that used on sculpture. She’s got a master’s degree in Art History and another in archaeology, with a minor in art restoration. It’s not that she’s not qualified to be here, it’s just that there’s  _ lots  _ of different kinds of art, and fashion just isn’t one she particularly understands. She appreciates it, of  _ course _ she does. There’s a lot of effort that goes into fashion. The dresses that this seamstress brought in are no exception. Diana is not doubting her craft, nor dedication to her work. On the contrary, it’s the opposite.

She’s  _ too  _ dedicated to getting her work displayed exactly as she wants it.

Museums as a whole give the artists a little wiggle-room for the display of their pieces. Art is finicky like that - the way a piece is displayed can absolutely change the meaning behind the piece and how impactful it is. They allow artists to dictate lighting, positioning, height - basically anything their heart desires.

In their designated space. They get a space that they can use however they desire, but they have to stay in that space. That’s how the museums organize multiple exhibits at once. It’s logical. They can’t very well  _ overbook  _ or  _ underbook _ , after all. They need to budget their space appropriately and don’t agree to take on more than they can logically fit.

Seamstress doesn’t seem to understand that. She’s been bickering with poor Claudia for the past thirty minutes about her pieces how her pieces would be better displayed in the main hall, as the lighting (which is arguably the exact same quality and has the same versatility) is “better” and her pieces would have a different meaning in the main hall (Diana doubts that point especially) and how she can see spaces that her pieces would fit, no problem.

Diana could smack her for that “no problem” alone. Maybe no problem for  _ her. _ She wouldn’t have to deal with the artist who got paid and was expecting to be the main hall attraction, nor would she have to deal with the organization nightmare that would follow trying to fight the main hall pieces (giant sculptures of cast iron mini-sculptures, twenty feet tall and several thousand pounds) into the wing rooms (with  _ exactly  _ twenty-foot ceilings, not accounting for the rigging and lights that hang down from the ceiling), nor have to deal with the fact that the advertisement for this exhibit has been circulating for the past six months in hype for the giant sculptures.

Self-important brat. The problem is she keeps threatening to break contract and pull her pieces, which the museum would sue her for, but that would take far too long, and she would have made her point. And frankly, would it even be worth the money? Her dresses are remarkably beautiful, truly artistic masterpieces, but it’s not like she’s the only artist, or the museum couldn’t find someone who would take a late introduction into their exhibition with joy and kindness and empathy in their hearts. Hell, Diana can think of several who were rejected for no other reason than they would be overbooked if they took them. 

They don’t need her dresses.

But life would be much easier if she would just  _ stop complaining _ .

“We didn’t pay you for the main hall,” Diana mumbles as she strides quickly over to Claudia’s side. Claudia is immensely sweet and would never promise something she couldn’t deliver on, but she’s not good at being blunt with the artists. She has too much respect for them and what they do to put them in their place when they’re being unreasonable.

“Ms. Carter,” Diana says with a firm smile on her lips. “Did you know the west wing has rigging that can be programmed to move? Don’t you think your gorgeous dresses would look stunning moving? Floating around the west wing? Drawing the crowds from the main hall, and the east hall too?”

Ms. Carter narrows her eyes at Diana. “Does the main hall have programmable rigging?”

Diana forces a giggle. It sounds grating in her ears, but the way that Ms. Carter relaxes seems to imply she’s the only one who can tell. “No, of course not. With the glass ceiling, it doesn’t look right. It’s not nearly as elegant or whimsical. Most people don’t bother to experiment with it, because their pieces aren’t flexible for that kind of movement, but I think yours might be exactly what that rigging needs.”

Flattery means nothing, but it certainly gets her what she wants.

Ms. Carter nods, slowly. “Who would I need to talk to regarding the programming?”

She doesn’t let her shoulders sag in relief, but the impulse is there. Claudia takes no such precautions and visibly slumps. “Mr. Terril, the man in the east hall altering the lights, is our resident programmer and electrician. Any question or request you have, he would be your best bet. He’s very talented. His work is an artform all its own.”

With a swift nod, Ms. Carter strides off toward the east hall.

Now, Diana slumps, massaging her sinuses. “ _ Finally, _ ” she growls.

“Mood,” Claudia murmurs. “She’s a pain in the ass. I’m telling Elaina to never accept her work ever again. You can’t just… expect the main hall. Three days before the exhibition starts. Dumdum. That’s not how any of this works.”

Diana chuckles drily. “I’ll mention it to Elaina too, but if her exhibit actually turns out as magical as Terril will undoubtedly try to make it, it might not matter. Elaina always likes unique artforms and ancient-style dresses made from alternate materials are definitely unique. Besides, she doesn’t have to deal with the brat, so why would she care? Especially if her exhibit draws in the crowds that it has the potential too. I wish I had been lying when I said it would catch eyes.”

“True…” Claudia sighs. “Well, I think if we have to house her pieces again, we should make sure her set-up day is when neither of us work, so someone else will have to deal with her. If we can get enough people against her, Elaina will have to change her mind, artform or not, right?”

“I dunno.” She yawns. “I need coffee. It’s too early in the morning for me to be this exhausted.”

“Same,” Claudia chuckles. “Ms. Carter really knows how to sap the energy out of a person.”

“That, she most definitely does. I do not envy Mr. Terril.”


	2. to know him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Situations evolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some more :)

Sitting in the waiting room is probably the worst part, Honey decides. Everything is generic and unexciting, and everyone studiously ignores one another. The magazines are over the top drama, or health magazines, and neither of which appeals to Honey.

She could sigh in relief when she hears, “Madeline Wheeler-Grant?”

She stands, smiling at the nurse as she follows her back. Height, weight, last menstrual cycle, any fever symptoms - the same questions every nurse asks every time. She then leads her to a small room with a bed and a counter with a sink.

She takes a seat on the bed.

“Dr. Belden will be in shortly,” the nurse says with a bright smile. 

Honey studies the inside of the room. Pictures on the walls - trees, diagrams of moss, an ISpy page that was likely torn out of a book in a frame. On the counter, there’s a small painted ceramic frog wearing a goofy smile. The frog has a tiny nameplate in front of it, reading Fredrick.

Fredrick is adorable, and Honey loves him immediately.

Maybe she’ll crochet Fredrick a scarf for the next time she visits. He would look quite dashing in a scarf. Besides, being a frog, the winters here must be very uncomfortable. Something warm to wear would probably do him good.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and a doctor, about her age with dark hair and dark eyes, comes into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Good morning, Mrs. Wheeler-Grant,” he says, voice deep and lovely. “My name is Doctor Brian Belden.”

She holds out her hand. “Call me Honey.”

His eyes widen, and a light pink spreads across his cheeks.

“I’m not flirting. It’s my nickname,” she assures with a giggle. “My hair is honey-colored and my mom’s name was also Madeline. When I was little, Honey was simple, and also less syllables. For better or worse, it stuck.”

He flushes darker. “I think I’ll stick with Mrs. Wheeler-Grant.” He shakes her hand.

Honey rolls her eyes. “Madeline is fine too. I hate making people say that mouthful of a last name.”

He swallows, then says, “Madeline, then.” He hesitates, then continues. “When scheduling the appointment, you didn’t list any health concerns. May I ask what you would like to accomplish today?”

She hums, crossing her legs. “I just moved here, so all I really wanted was to meet my new doctor before I had to for an emergency, and perhaps get a check-up. It’s been a couple years since my last one.”

Seeming a little relieved to be talking about something he’s more comfortable with, he jumps into the canned spiel about the clinic, the legal side of his work, and where Honey can go if she decides, for any reason, that he had crossed the line and was being inappropriate.

Looking at him, studying the elegant lines of his cheekbones and smattering of freckles across his nose and the way his ears are just the slightest bit pointed, as though he were fae and his muscled arms and broad shoulders, she decides that there likely wasn’t a line she wouldn’t allow him to cross.

She does notice, however, the dark bags under his eyes. He’s smiling, pleasant as he rambles on about legal stuff that Honey doesn’t want to listen to, but he looks tired. Weary.

“Does all of that make sense?” He asks, and Honey nods with a smile. 

“Now that that boring stuff is out of the way,” he says, unwinding his stethoscope from around his neck, “we’ll get on with the check-up portion. Is it alright if I touch you?”

Honey is half-tempted to tease him - it’s all too easy to make him blush - but she just nods. Pushing him too far would be bad for both of them. “Yep,” she says instead.

He presses the stethoscope to her back. “Deep breaths.”

She takes several, ignoring the warmth of his broad hand on her shoulder. 

“Good,” he says, removing the stethoscope and his hand. “Next is your pulse.”

She holds up her hand, letting him clamp the small device onto her finger.

"And blood pressure," he says, but then eyes her sweater. It's a thick wool sweater and she doesn't wait for him to ask before taking off, leaving her in the t-shirt underneath. "Thanks," he smiles, crookedly.

"No worries," she grins. "I didn't think about my appointment when I picked my sweater this morning."

"It looks very warm," he says easily, wrapping the velcro around her arm. "I'd want to wear that today too."

She eyes his light-weight sweater, a warm maroon. "Your sweater doesn't look nearly warm enough."

He chuckles. "Oh, it definitely isn't. Fortunately, I don't get outside much during the day, so I don't notice it quite so much."

There's a moment of silence while he squeezes the pump, then watches the numbers in silence.

She thinks she might be crossing the line, but she reaches over and gently tugs on his white coat. "Is this warm?"

He startles, glancing down at her hand, then up to her face. His cheeks dust pink again.

"No," he manages, though it sounds a bit choked. "It doesn't do much at all, honestly. What it’s designed to do is to, when necessary, guard our clothes from liquids.” The words come out quickly, as if he’s trying to hide his discomfort with facts.

Honey scrunches her nose. “Is that a common problem?”

Dr. Belden smiles. “Depends on the day. If I’m helping a woman deliver her baby, then yes. If I’m doing check-ups like these, not so much.”

“You deliver babies?”

He shrugs, scribbling something down on a couple different forms on the counter. “That’s not my specialty, but every once in a while, I’m the only one available, and it’s not like pregnancy can be put on pause. Even though this city isn’t exactly small and there are bigger and better places to go in emergencies, our patients don’t always consider that we’re not maybe the best place. We’re not really a hospital, but we’re not necessarily a normal clinic either. Because of that, we get a weird mix of regular patients and emergencies.”

“Huh… What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen and had to deal with?”

He snorts. “There’s always the people who come in with various items shoved up certain orifices.”

“That was the most polite way I’ve heard someone judge kinks before.”

He laughs, cheeks pink. “I’m not judging anyone. Some of these people, I kid you not, weren’t even _trying_ to get these items stuck up the places they were getting them stuck.”

Honey giggles. “You mean to tell me some people _accidentally_ get shit stuck up their ass?”

“That I do,” he chuckles. “Not _all_ of them are accidents, to be sure, but some of them definitely are.”

“Okay, I’m giving up. _How_ do people accidentally get shit stuck up their ass?”

“I try to tune out all excuses that I can. Some, obviously, are required to fix whatever the problem is, but if a person comes in with a whole electric toothbrush shoved up his butt, I’m in no hurry to find out why. That’s none of my business and I have no intentions of _making_ it my business at any point in time.”

“An electric toothbrush, huh?”

He chuckles, tapping the papers on the counter to organize them. “One of the more traumatizing incidents, to be sure. Not as excited as the loaded magnum, to be sure, but definitely more traumatizing.”

Honey blinks. “I think,” she says, “that I do not know as much about kinks as I thought I did.”

Dr. Belden bursts out laughing. “That thought has crossed my mind more than once, believe me. Every time I see someone with a new… interest, I think I’ve seen the weirdest one. I think it can’t possibly get weirder. I think that this must be the extent of human lust. I’ve come to the conclusion that if you think that, that _guarantees_ someone will come in with something to top it.”

“Well, I have a new level of appreciation for you and your coworkers now,” Honey shakes her head. “A loaded magnum?”

“Indeed. Magnum extraction wasn’t something they taught in med school, gotta say.”

Honey laughs. “All that money and they didn’t even bother to cover kink-gone-wrong removal?”

He smiles, a bit sadly. “Unfortunately, it took gargantuan effort to get them to consider teaching anything that didn’t involve an average white male. So, no, kinks were not ever on the syllabus.”

She hums. “Oh well. Might have made for an awkward class anyways. Half of the class uncomfortable and squirming the entire time, half of the class irrepressibly aroused the entire time… I know I wouldn’t want to teach a class like that.”

He snorts, covering his mouth to hide his smile. “Me neither.” He scans the papers again, humming. “It looks like we’re done here. Unless you have any other concerns you’d like to discuss with me?”

She almost wants to lie, just to talk to him longer, but she would rather keep the good vibes going. She pulls her sweater back on. “No, I think that just about covers everything, Dr. Belden.”

He smiles. “Brian.”

Talk about instant gratification. “Brian it is, then,” she grins, waving as she leaves.

“You’re doing it again,” Grace’s voice cuts into her thoughts, and her hand collides with her shoulder.

Trixie smoothes the irritation off of her features before Grace can see it, turning around innocently. “Doing what?”

“Wallowing,” Grace says, crossing her arms. “Your brother went missing here, and I totally get it. But he’s not going to magically reappear if you stand here long enough. I broke a _lot_ of rules, giving you his case, but I’ll take it back if I think it’s going to hurt you.”

Trixie takes a deep breath. “It won’t hurt me anymore than it already has. It’s not like I don’t know the statistics. I’m well aware of what I’m likely chasing.”

Grace frowns. “You don’t believe that.”

She quirks a brown, letting out a sigh. “I don’t _want_ to believe that. That’s not the same thing as acknowledging the facts. Chances are, he’s dead and I’m looking for a corpse and a cold trail. Chances are, I’m never going to find out who killed him or why. I’m never going to know why he was here.” She gestures to the ruins of what might have been a hotel around them, crumbled brick and cigarette butts beneath her feet and gratified walls surrounding her, protecting her from the wind. “Chances are it’s too late, and I didn’t find him in time.”

“Usually, I would compliment your realism, Belden, but this… I don’t think this is healthy.”

Trixie shrugs. “The station therapist didn’t seem too worried when I said the same thing.”

Grace moves her hands to her hips. “Ruth was the one who told me to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s against the law,” Trixie says, though she’s not really all that upset about it, and doesn’t really have any intentions of causing a ruckus because of it. She likes Ruth, after all. If Ruth was worried enough about her to tell Grace, Trixie knows that probably because it was worth it.

“Belden,” Grace growls, then lets out a sigh. “No one who’s brother is missing is healthy and fine.”

“You said so yourself that I was being realistic.”

“Trixie.”

She lets out a humorless chuckle. “I get it, Chief.” She takes one more look around.

If her eyes catch on a piece of graffiti art, she doesn’t show it. She simply turns, and follows Grace out to the waiting cars.

Grace literally locks her out of the station and swears she’s going to have the patrols check the hotel every two hours, so Trixie goes back to her apartment.

For his eighteenth birthday, Mart had gotten a bracelet. Woven leather and beautiful metalwork, he hadn’t taken it off once. Even wrapped it in plastic when he showered, so it wouldn’t get damaged. It’s his favorite accessory he owns. The leather is varying shades of brown, with morse code stamped into the surface. Trixie never bothered to learn what it said - that was between Mart and her father, who gave him the bracelet, as far as she was concerned. The metal plates woven into the leather, however…

One plate had one of Mart’s favorite book quotes on it: _Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised,_ from _Lord of the Rings_. Another had the imprint of his favorite constellation, Orion. Another had seven symbols, six circling the seventh. Each symbol represented one of his family members. For their father, a simple circle. Their mother, a hen. For Brian, their oldest brother, an anatomical heart. For Trixie, a magnifying glass. For Bobby, their youngest brother, a whistle.

On the back is a small bone for the family dog, Reddy, but it is usually hidden from sight.

The final metal plate, though, has a seal printed on it. This is another design Trixie had never asked Mart to explain, but she knew it well, the shield with the dragon, lion and snake tangling together. She knew the shape their tails made, intertwined around the bottom tip of the shield.

She knew the shape drawn on the crumbling brick wall in chalk was an _eerily_ accurate representation of that same shape.

She would like nothing more than to know how that got there, who put it there, and why. She wants to go back and study it, maybe ask Jared in the lab to analyze the kind of chalk. He owed her two favors anyways. 

But it’s honestly too much work to bother dodging the patrols, so instead, she takes out her phone, takes a deep breath, and calls Mart’s phone.

It rings. And rings. And rings. And goes to voicemail. Just like it had every day when she called for the past three weeks.

“Hey, Mart,” she says, her voice wobbling. “I miss you. I wish I knew where you were, and that you were okay. I love you, and I’m going to find you.” She takes a deep breath, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “I’m going to find you, okay? I found a lead. I’m going to find you, no matter what.”

Her phone buzzes with an incoming call.

“Good bye, Mart. I love you. Call you again tomorrow.”

She hangs up, and answers Brian.

“Hello,” she says, trying to hide the way her voice is breaking. “How are you?”

Brian’s deep chuckle echoes through the phone. It sounds humorless. “Call Mart again?”

Trixie doesn’t respond.

“I called him an hour ago.”

The pain in her heart both grows and eases all at once. “No answer?”

“No.”

A beat of silence.

“You?”

“Voicemail.”

More silence. Trixie can hear the clock in the kitchen ticking.

“I had a good day, though,” Brian says eventually. “Got a new patient. You’d like her. She had known me for all of five seconds before she started pushing my buttons.”

A flicker of smile teases her lips. “How so?”

“She tried to convince me her name was Honey, and that she wasn’t flirting with me.”

Trixie snorts. “Was she old?”

“No, actually. Probably somewhere between your and my age.”

“Married?”

“Yep.”

She chuckles, wandering into the living room and sitting on the couch. “That explains it. Though lord knows why she thought _you_ were better than whoever her current husband is.”

Brian scoffs. “As if she was thinking like that. She struck me as the kind who flirts with everyone and never means it. I think she just knew that given the circumstances, it would make me uncomfortable faster.”

“You are surprisingly easy to fluster,” Trixie hums. “I’m sure, if this Honey has a boring husband, you were quite amusing. Did her husband come to her appointment?”

“No, but that doesn’t really mean anything. Rarely do couples come together, especially when they’re out of college.”

“Was she pretty?”

The sound Brian makes alone makes her smile. “What?” The word is little more than a squeak.

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, I guess? I dunno! That’s not my job!”

Trixie clucks her tongue. “You do have eyes, don’t you?"

"I wasn't looking at her like that!"

"The fact that you're arguing with me over this both definitely confirms she was pretty and that you're into her."

A shocked scoff comes from the other end, and Trixie smiles in satisfaction. "I am no such thing!"

"But she was pretty?"

Brian grumbles. "Well… yeah."

"Ha!" Trixie sticks her tongue out, even though they're in separate apartments across the city and Brian can't see the expression. "Wait, isn't crushing on a patient against like… every law ever?"

She can't see Brian's expression, but she can picture with amazing clarity as he says, "You're the police officer. You tell me. Who's side are you on anyways?"

"Whoever's side makes you the most flustered," she grins. She misses Mart - tag-teaming teasing Brian is even more fun than teasing him alone - but she's glad for this brief moment of respite from the constant ache of missing him. "But seriously, as long as she initiated it and you don't do the nasty in the clinic, I don't think anyone would try to stop you."

Probably in efforts to change the subject away from Honey, Brian says, "We are adults, Trix. You could just say sex."

"Hm… nah. If I'm talking about you having sex, it's going to be called the nasty."

Brian snorts. "I think you just insulted me."

"Oh, most definitely," Trixie snickers. "If it makes you feel better, you can refer to me having sex as doing the nasty as well."

Brian sighs loud enough that she can hear it on the other end of the line. 

"Are you going to flirt back the next time you see her?"

"Trix, that'll be like… a year, maybe two, maybe more, from now. Adults aren't nearly as regular with doctors appointments. Hell, if I wasn't your brother, would you have gotten one in the past six years?"

She hums. "You have a point but I refuse to acknowledge it on the grounds that you didn't actually answer my question. Would you flirt with her if you saw tomorrow?"

"Trixie, she's _married_."

"Didn't stop her from flirting with you. Besides, open relationships exist. You don't know."

"Trixie."

"It's a yes or no question, Bri," she chides. "Just answer."

He's silent for a long moment. "A solid maybe. I would need to see how she interacts with people other than me first."

"Brian, I can't believe _I'm_ the one telling you this, but you are overthinking this. She's just a woman, you're just a man, flirting happens. If she's not interested, she will let you know and you'll back the hell off because you're a good person and that will be the end of that."

"But if she's not interested, she could report me to my boss and-"

"And you could tell them she flirted first! Usually, people aren't so obvious as asking people to call them Honey, three seconds after meeting them. You're human. It'll be fine."

"I'm going to wait until I'm sure," Brian says firmly.

Trixie sighs. "I know."

"I need to go to the grocery store," Brian says, after a pause. "I'm gonna have to let you go."

"Love you, Brian. Talk to you later."

"Love you too."

Trixie hangs up, staring at her phone. Every time she powers it on, she hopes there will be a text from Mart, or a call from him, or an email - hell, she'd take an Instagram DM. Anything.

Her stomach growls. She needs to make dinner.

Diana stares at the storeroom, filled with various paintings and statues and ceramics.

"What do you mean it's not in here?" She asks, panic softening her voice.

"I don't know what to tell you, Di," Claudia says, sounding on the brink of panic herself. "Every log we have says the collection should be in here. I combed through the entire room. So did Peter, Andrea, and Mr. Terril. Then we went through every other storeroom in the building. The entire collection is gone."

Gone.

“Museums don’t just _lose_ collections,” Diana whispers, eyes wide. “What do we do? Who do we talk to?”

“I texted Elaina and told her we needed to talk to her as soon as she got out of her meeting.” Claudia takes a deep breath. “She texted me back, saying she’d be down in ten, about eight minutes ago. Maybe she’ll know something we don’t.”

At that moment, Elaina comes charging down the hall, heels clacking loudly against the cement. Her dark hair bounces in its tight ringlets. “What’s wrong?”

“The Frayne Collection is missing,” Claudia says. “It’s not in any of the storerooms. There’s no logs of anyone moving it. We can’t find it.”

The blood drains from Elaina’s face. “Missing?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call the police,” she says, pointing to Diana. Her gesture shifts to Claudia. “Claudia. My office. Red binder, yellow label. It’s a log of the contact information of all the collection owners in the museum. Find the number. Call them, and let them know what happened.”

Diana pulls out her phone and calls 911.

The process is long and arduous. The museum has to close for a whole week. 

It’s nearly five hours after her shift ended that she’s finally allowed to clock-out and go home. Her feet ache. 

Fourteen hours is too many hours to be standing.

Her feet ache and her mind is _fried_. Having to recall everything she did and everywhere she’s been in the last two weeks was more than difficult, especially after having worked an already stressful day in the museum.

She opens the door to her apartment, a weary smile pulling at her cheeks as her black cat, Bowling Ball (for his perpetually round shape and the three white dots on top of his head), waddles up to her, purring his delight at her return.

She slips her flats off, crouching to stroke his silky fur. “I missed you today,” she murmurs. “I could have used some cuddles between questions.”

He brrups at her, then takes a couple steps toward the food bowl with a mournful expression.

“Yeah, you’re probably hungry, huh?” Diana chuckles, groaning as she stands again. “I’m home much later than I wanted to be too.” Her stomach gurgles loudly. “Apparently, I’m just as hungry as you are, BB.”

She feeds BB, and then starts making herself some eggs - normally, she’d have a salad, but her heart wants something heavier tonight - when her phone buzzes.

She opens it with one hand, ensuring the eggs don’t burn with the other.

Texts from Claudia.

 _8:03 -_ _you remember trenton?_

_8:03 - he worked here for like a week then quit?_

_8:04 - the police think he did it_

Diana bites her lip, slowly thumbing out: _do they have any real evidence?_

A moment later, a _no_ comes in. _circumstantial_

She frowns. That’s not enough to go on, and it’s certainly not enough to find the collection on. She supposes, though, that they’ve only had the case for five and a half hours, so the fact they have anything at all is probably pretty impressive.

She doesn't know. Maybe it's not. Maybe she's being too optimistic. Do police usually find stolen art?

She guesses not.

Frustrating.

She takes a deep breath. She didn't take the collection. She doesn't know who did. She hasn't done anything in the past three weeks out of the usual - hasn't even _been_ to the storeroom since the month before last. She's more active in the actual displays, sometimes as a tour guide, sometimes just as a source if anyone has questioned, but usually just wandering to make sure all of the displays haven't shifted or been damaged. Security takes care of the people, and she takes care of the art. She also has clearance to help man the front desk or any pay-to-enter exhibits, where occasionally crowds make it overwhelming.

She's not a thief.

The thought that she might have known someone who is, might have been given the clues and didn't see them, makes her skin crawl.

Rubbing her arms and shaking herself, she finishes making her eggs, then turns the living room TV on. She's been slowly working her way through the Studio Ghibli movies, just appreciating the art style and vibes. _Howl’s Moving Castle_ is one of her favorites, and she throws it on, even though she’s already seen it today.

She remembers Trenton.

Trenton, blond and lanky, with his trembling hands, anxious smile, and warm heart. He only worked at the museum for about a week, but Diana distinctly remembers liking him. He was sweet, friendly, even though he perpetually looked like he was running on two hours of sleep and a prayer. He always forgot to pack something to eat, and Diana had gotten in the habit of “accidentally” packing extra for him. 

His smile made her happy. 

He had defended her from a creep, once, completely shutting down an asshole who was trying to feel her up.

She had liked him.

She doesn’t think he stole the collection. She wouldn’t have guessed he had it in him. 

She hopes he didn’t. 


End file.
